"JEALOUSY IS CRUEL AS THE GRAVE."
Warren was seated in his office at Gydisdorp, and his whole power of
mind and thought was concentrated on a letter.
It lay on the table before him. It was not externally a pleasing
object. It was covered with thumb marks; the writing was in a laboured,
unformed hand; the spelling and grammar were vile and the contents
cryptic. Yet to him who now sat dwelling upon it the communication was
of so jubilant a nature that his only misgiving was that it might be
premature or not true. This was strange, for the gist of the document
was to announce the death of one who had been his friend.
"Jealousy is cruel as the grave," sings the Wise Man. Warren was not
familiar with the quotation but he instinctively, if unconsciously,
realised its purport as he sat there conning the greasy, ill-spelt
missive whose contents he knew by heart. And yet so paradoxically
logical was his own particular temperament that side by side with the
wild jubilation that thrilled his whole being over the certainty that
the one obstacle in his way was in it no longer, never would be in it
again, ran a vein of real regret for the man for whom under any other
circumstances he would have felt a genuine friendship. That he, Gilbert
Warren, sat there, in intent, at any rate, a murderer, was the last
thing in the world to occur to him. In intent only, as it happened, for
the main substance of the communication lay in one sentence, penned in
an utterly uneducated style. To be exact it ran thus:
"Wivern and jo fletwood have bin kild by the Usootos."
And then followed further particulars.
Warren had little doubt as to the genuineness of the missive. It was
matter of common report that there had been serious disturbances in the
remoter parts of Zululand between the faction which cleaved to the
captive and exiled King, and that which did not, to wit that influenced
by most of the thirteen kinglets appointed under the Wolseley
settlement. Wyvern and his friend had somehow got mixed up in one of
these ructions, and--there was an end of them.
Unlocking a drawer he got out the portrait of Lalante, and set it
upright before him. She was his now; not all at once of course, but
when she began to get over her loss, when the first sense of it began to
be bluntened. He was far too cautious in his knowledge of human nature
to hurry matters; to seem to "rush" her in any way. His was the part of
earnest sympathiser. He would sound the dead man's praises in every
way, and on every available opportunity. He would make himself
necessary to her by doing this when other people had practically
forgotten that any such person had ever existed. In time she would turn
to him, not for a long time it might be--Warren was shrewd enough to
realise this--but time was nothing and he could afford to wait, even as
he had waited already, and he knew full well that next to Wyvern there
was no man living of whom Lalante held a higher opinion than himself.
The river incident had had much to do with cementing this. Fervently
Warren blessed that incident, and had done his best to make the most of
it; not by dwelling on it in any way, on the contrary if it was ever
mentioned he would pooh-pooh it and change the subject. But he was more
than ever welcome at Le Sage's, and made a good deal of his welcome by
being frequently there. Moreover he knew that in Le Sage himself he had
a powerful and steadfast ally.
All this ran through his busy mind as he gazed at the portrait in a
perfect ecstasy of love and passion; taking in the splendid outlines of
the form, the straight glance of the fearless wide-opened eyes, the
seductive attractiveness of the face, firm, yet so sweet and tender.
His! his at last I and yet he would need all his patience. Then a tap
at the door brought him back to the practicalities of the hard, business
world again. Drawing some papers over the portrait, he sung out:
"Come in."
A clerk entered.
"There's a party downstairs wants to see you, sir. Roughish looking
customer too."
"Is he sober?"
"I think so, sir. At least he seems pretty steady on his pins."
"Name?"
"Bexley. Jim Bexley. Said you knew him, sir, and would be sure to see
him."
"Right. Show him up when I ring, not before."
When the clerk had gone out Warren replaced the portrait in the drawer,
even as we saw him do on a former occasion. He was in no hurry to
interview his caller, on the contrary he sat, thinking profoundly, for
quite a while. Then he banged on his handbell.
There was a creaking of heavy footsteps on the wooden stairs, and the
clerk reappeared, ushering in the visitor. Even as the clerk had said
he was a roughish looking customer, and he was sober. Him we have seen
before, for it was no less a personage than our old friend Bully Rawson.
But the "bully" side of him seemed to have departed. His manner was
positively cringing as the door closed behind him, leaving him alone
with Warren. The latter gazed at him fixedly for a moment. Then he
said:
"Sit down."
Rawson obeyed. But the expression of his face as he stared at Warren
was that of a cornered animal, cowed as well, or of one in a trap.
"Have you been keeping sober?"
"Yes, Mr Warren. But Lord love ye, if I was never so `on' I wouldn't
blab."
"No, you wouldn't, because you've nothing to blab about."
The tone was absolutely cool and unmoved. With one hand Warren was
playing with a paper weight which lay on the table. Rawson fidgetted
uneasily.
"I've taken care of him," he said at last. "Oh three times I `took care
of him,' but it were no go. That blanked Fleetwood come in the way
twice, the third time I turned it over to a nigger of mine and he got
`took care of' instead. Haw-haw-haw!"
"Howling joke, isn't it?"
"Rather. Them blanked Usutus rushed my kraal, and I just took 'em on to
Wyvern and Fleetwood's camp and--well, they took care of 'em."
"You saw it done?"
"Didn't I! And while they was doing it I lit out, slid up a big baobab
which looked hollow, and sure enough it was; and there I lay snug while
they was huntin' around in every direction for me. Ho-ho! There was a
nest of red ants in the hole though, and I jolly well got nearly eaten."
"Yes? Well, you stay around here a little longer--where, I don't mind
one way or the other. Only--keep sober. D'you hear? Keep sober. I
may want you at any minute. Meanwhile I'll just take down all
particulars of your yarn."
He got a sheet of foolscap and put the other through his statement,
taking down the details in a concise, business-like way. The only thing
on which Rawson seemed hazy was the exact date. He had no call to
bother about that sort of thing up-country, he explained apologetically,
in fact he hardly knew one day of the week from another, so completely
had he got out of the way of reckoning by time.
This done, Rawson shuffled a little uneasily, then said:
"All my things were looted, Mr Warren. I'm a beggar as I stand here,
so help me. Couldn't you let us have something to start me afresh?"
"Not a rix-dollar."
"You're a hard 'un to serve," grunted Rawson.
"You'll find me a harder one still if you don't watch it. I've no
further use for you that I know of, but there's one Jonathan Baldock
that certain judicial authorities in this colony might turn to a very
unpleasant use--for Jonathan Baldock. So mind your way about,
especially where I am concerned."
The cowed look upon the ruffianly countenance gave way to the ferocity
of desperation. Warren had goaded this savage beast to a point past
endurance. As Fleetwood had said, Bully Rawson's pluck was beyond
question, but even it paled before the vision of a beam and a swinging
noose. Now, beside himself with fear and rage, he turned on Warren, and
reviled him with epithets that we cannot reproduce here. The whole
aspect of the man was rather terrific, especially to one who knew his
character and repute. But Warren sat calmly through the outburst,
turning over a paper here and there.
"Now that you've done you may go--and be hanged," he said at last, when
the other had stopped exhausted.
"Yes, but I'll be hanged for something, hell take me if I don't," he
roared. "I'll send you there first, you blasted, snivelling,
white-livered liar."
Warren found himself gazing at the muzzle of a wicked-looking
six-shooter, and that in the hand of a desperate and exasperated
ruffian. But he did not move, nor did his face change colour in the
slightest degree.
"Put up that thing," he said, coolly. "And stop kicking up that
infernal row, unless you want everyone else to know what no one knows at
present but me."
The hard, cold eyes of the lawyer held the savage, bloodshot ones of the
border desperado, and triumphed.
"I'm sorry, Mr Warren," said the latter, shamefacedly, replacing the
weapon in his pocket. "My temper's a bit short these days. I sort of
forgot myself."
"I should rather think you did. Well, as you have the decency to own it
here's something to go on with. Only because you're hard up, mind, not
on account of anything you may or may not have done for me," and he
opened a drawer, and taking out some notes chucked them across to the
other. "Well Jim Bexley, you can go now. Keep me up to where you're to
be found in case I want you, and, above all, keep sober. So long."
He banged the handbell and the same clerk came up; and Bully Rawson
found himself shown out, while wondering if he had done the right thing,
and whether there was anything more to be got out of Warren, also
whether the latter had been really as cool as he seemed or whether his
coolness was forced "side." As to this Warren was thinking the same
thing himself; and came to the conclusion that he had been for one
moment in desperate peril. Then he ceased to give the matter another
thought.
For some time after his visitor's departure he sat thinking. How would
Lalante take the news? This was the worst side of it. Who was to break
it to her? Not he himself--with all his nerve and self-possession this
was a task from which Warren shrank. Who better qualified for it than
her own father. Le Sage must be the man. He would write to Le Sage,
giving the facts.
The facts? A sudden and unaccountable misgiving leaped into his mind,
striking him as it were, between the eyes. What if Rawson had invented
the story, or had simply escaped and left the other two in the lurch?
In that case the chances were ten to one that they turned up again,
since the Zulus were only fighting among themselves and not against the
whites. How could he have pinned his faith to the word of an utterly
irredeemable scoundrel such as Bully Rawson? Thinking now of his former
jubilation Warren felt perfectly sick at the thought that it might have
been wholly premature. However he would put the matter beyond all
doubt. He would wire his agents in Natal to leave no stone unturned; to
spare no trouble or expense; to hire a whole army of native spies, if
necessary, to collect every scrap of information throughout the whole of
the disturbed country. This need arouse no curiosity; his friendship
with Wyvern would account for it.
What was this thing called love, that it should upset reason, and
possess the brain to the exclusion of all other things. In the travail
of his soul Warren recognised that he was standing on the brink of a
pit. By just the exceptional strength of his mind and will did this
obsession become the more dangerous should his new-found hopes melt into
air, and, realising this, he realised also that it might soon be time to
"set his house in order." For the fate of his former friend he felt no
compunction whatever, for "jealousy is cruel as the grave."